


Snapshots

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Historical Elements, M/M, Minor warnings for language, Mostly Fluff, Nothing major though, Reincarnation AU, Some light angst?, Temporary Character Death, WWII, immortal au, russian civil war, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 05:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11891505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: The first time Ivan sees him, he’s bathed in the golden light flooding the late afternoon.





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta-reader, without whom this wouldn't be as good and would have a major plot-hole or two.

The first time Ivan sees him, he’s bathed in the golden light flooding the late afternoon. 

The longshoremen and dock hands are streaming into and out of the ship, and Ivan oversees the process with little interest. The captain of the ship and some American officials are making jovial conversation next to him, discussing everything from weather in Moscow at this time of the year to the political climate in the Colonies. 

And out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flurry of movement and a flash of something, and when he looks over he finds himself looking at a boy. He’s beautiful, the sunlight adding a shine to his youthful features. He’s moving around swiftly, carrying packages and crates and helping here and there to unload the ship. 

And while he is perhaps the most beautiful person Ivan has ever seen, the first time he ignores it as best he can. He’s just a boy among all the others.

 

* * *

 

The second time Ivan sees him is much later, in - if he remembers correctly - 1851. Ivan is walking along the streets of Moscow, and comes to a bridge. The boy is standing there, in the middle of the bridge, looking over it to the river underneath.

Ivan can’t immediately recall why the boy seems familiar, but when he does, the boy is also looking at him. Ivan belatedly realises he was staring. Oddly, the boy doesn’t break the gaze, but smiles radiantly. Ivan responds with a smile more apologetic and embarrassed, and crosses to the man (he looks slightly older now).

“Pardon me for staring, it is just that you reminded me of someone I - knew,” Ivan offers as an apology, and though it seemed impossible, the man’s smile widened. 

His response is given in flawless albeit accented Russian. Foreign. “It is fine, it has happened to me, too.” The man extends a hand. “My name is Alfred. Alfred F. Johanssen.”

Ivan takes the hand, and shakes it. “Ivan Braginsky. Pleasure to meet you.” Alfred responds similarly, and Ivan decides to engage in polite small-talk. “Where are you from? I venture you aren’t from here.”

Alfred chuckles. It’s a soft sound. Reminds Ivan of a light June breeze. “The accent gave me away, did it not? I am American. I am a student here in Russia.”

Ivan smiles. His response is in English. “If you are more comfortable with English, I  _ am _ fluent in it,” he says. 

Alfred seems relieved, although he tries to conceal it. “If it’s no bother. Thanks. I’m fluent, but it still is a bit of work on some days.”

“What has brought you to Moscow then?” If Alfred is fluent, perhaps he works here. Although he seems so terribly young. 

“I’m a student of the University. I heard the classes are good, and had the opportunity to travel abroad for my studies.”

Ivan makes an agreeing hum. “What is it you study?” 

“Medicine. It’s hard, but worth it.” 

There’s something about Alfred that’s charming, and Ivan finds himself enjoying the conversation. They chat lightly for some time, and soon Ivan finds himself inviting Alfred for dinner, and they soon become regulars in each other’s lives. 

The first photo is taken when Alfred gets his doctorate in medicine, and they celebrate it by eternalising the moment.

As much as it pains Ivan to do so, he announces to Alfred in 1859 that he’s being transferred to another country, Germany or France - he can’t remember which any more - to work for His Imperial Majesty. Alfred seems downcast, but Ivan vows to visit and write to Alfred often. He writes but never visits (explaining why he looks the same as twenty years ago would be complex at the least) and Alfred mentions his return to the United States now that he has his degree. 

In 1862, he receives a letter in an unfamiliar handwriting. It’s signed  _ Matthew, Alfred’s brother _ . The letter tells Ivan that Alfred perished in the war, trying to save the lives of wounded men. It pains Ivan more than he imagined, but it is nothing he hasn’t experienced before. Friendship does not come easy for a man like Ivan.

_ Heroic, _ Ivan thinks as he reads the letter again, and the word fits Alfred. He ignores the way his heart pulls.

* * *

Thirty or so years later, Ivan makes a trip to the United States. He’s reading the newspaper when he comes across a picture of Alfred F. Johnson in it, proudly standing in front of a large building. The man is a Senator. Ivan realises he never asked about the middle name. 

Ivan doesn’t meet him in those years, but he keeps the picture. He convinces himself he has no idea why he does so.

* * *

As morbid as it may sound, to Ivan wars are nothing but distractions. After all, war provides him with a break from the dull, usual rhythm of life. But this time, war takes a rather new and painful twist for him.

When the war breaks out in 1914, he immediately signs up and quickly rises through ranks due to his sheer skill with a weapon and in military strategy. And when the tide turns in 1917, he knows it wise to join the ranks if the Red Army. And he is soon on the front lines of the civil war tearing his country apart. 

Frankly, everything up until July 1920 is rather familiar to Ivan. It is, in all honesty, July 17th that takes Ivan by surprise. That day, Ivan would always remember as the date of his death. The previous time was in 1561, the exact date of which was rather hard to pinpoint, with a rather inconvenient sword through his chest. He’d been in and out of consciousness for days, alone in a forest, and had had to pull the sword out himself in one of his moments of consciousness to allow his body to heal the wound itself instead of him bleeding out, again. 

This time, he supposes he miscalculated many things. The first being the simple operation plan, the final being his enemy. He makes his way through the bright night with a handful of his men. It is rather irritating to attempt covert operations so far north in the summer, as darkness is never a cover there. They’ve almost reached the enemy camp when they’re ambushed and surrounded. It doesn’t take long for the shower of bullets to rain through the men, and Ivan finds himself turning to the last enemy man. 

To his surprise, the man is Alfred. He’s much younger, almost the age he was when Ivan first saw him bathed in gold. Perhaps he lied about his age when he enlisted. 

Alfred blinks twice when Ivan’s weapon does nothing, and fires with shaking hands. Ivan knows that the bullet from Alfred’s gun slammed right through his head.

His last conscious thought is that he’s  _ lucky _ for the clean in-and-out trajectory. 

* * *

It’s not long before there’s another war that comes and goes, and Ivan finds himself now weaving through the crowds. He finds himself at the edge of the Elbe, the river flowing gently downwards. The American and Russian soldiers behind him are cheerfully and loudly chatting and singing. He digs his pockets for a cigarette and lights it. The river continues to flow, the same way it has for centuries. Ivan has seen the river many times throughout the years.

To his side, there’s a cough and shuffling. He looks up from the river. His eyes land on what seems to be an American officer, and he looks perhaps in his mid- or late thirties. And then Ivan’s eyes meet the striking blue ones, that smile quickly at him before turning away. Ivan doesn’t think long, and he approaches Alfred. He would be lying if he said he isn’t fond of the man. 

Alfred doesn’t see or him approaching. “It is a rather nice day to be alive,” Ivan says. The American turns to him with a smile. 

“It sure is.” Alfred looks at him for a moment, but then his expression morphs into a quizzical one. Another moment later, he pales considerably. “ _ Jesus Christ _ , you-!” Alfred takes a step back, and the realisation crashes in Ivan’s mind. 

After all, a normal person would not react kindly to seeing the exact same man he killed twenty years earlier, standing around in flesh and blood. But Ivan’s face simply falls away from his smile, into one of question. “I’m sorry if I am intruding, I can-”

“I- Jesus, no, it- uh… it’s fine. You just… you look exactly…” Alfred frowns.  _ Exactly like a man I killed twenty five years ago in Russia,  _ Ivan completes in his mind. Perhaps he had even been Alfred’s first kill. Alfred shakes his head. “Must be the whole damn thing playin’ tricks on me. War does that,” he chuckles humourlessly. 

“Yes, it does.” 

“So, uh-?”

“Lieutenant Braginsky,” Ivan completes.

“So, what next, Lieutenant?”

Ivan shrugs. “I do not know. Returning to Russia. And for you,...?”

“Lieutenant Johns.” Alfred sighs. “The Pacific. War ain’t over there yet, and someone’s gotta do it. Maybe get myself some more shiny medals and a new title. Who knows.”

“Who ind-” Ivan is cut off by someone yelling  _ Photograph! _ And some minutes later they all stand with their men together with a smile on their faces. 

Ivan manages to get a copy of the photograph later on, and he realises he still doesn’t know Alfred’s middle name. 

He finds out some months later when he reads about the death of Captain Alfred Frederick Johns from Pennsylvania in Japan. The headline reads  _ NORMANDY HERO DIES IN JAPAN.  _

Alfred does not seem to be meant to live long lives. Ivan finds it ironic. He folds the paper away, but not before saving the picture of the radiant smile aimed at the camera. 

* * *

The next time Ivan crosses paths with Alfred, they could almost be friends. Ivan is leaving his apartment when a young man with bright blue eyes and a clear voice bumps into him. 

The man apologises in perfect Russian, and Ivan notices there’s not the hint of an accent. Ivan doesn’t have time to respond before Alfred is hurtling down the stairs of the standard Soviet apartment building.

Apparently Alfred lives on the floor just above Ivan, as he finds out after crossing Alfred on the following morning. Alfred introduces himself, however, as Fyodor Kozlov, and Ivan concludes he works for the C.I.A. 

Ivan figures he can enjoy it while it lasts.

They’re almost friends. Alfred likes to cook, and often invites Ivan for dinner. Ivan has a slightly better television than Alfred, so whenever Alfred wants to watch something specific he’s knocking on Ivan’s door. Moscow is a beautiful city that they often enjoy taking walks through. And when Ivan snaps photo after photo of an elated Alfred in different spots of the city, he realises there’s a reason he thinks the man is special, and why they keep crossing roads. 

Alfred sometimes vanishes for a few days at a time, to visit family, to run an errand, attend to business. It’s not long before Ivan’s bosses catch on to it and Alfred’s apartment is raided, Alfred arrested. The U.S. refuses to acknowledge Alfred’s existence. And so, after Ivan leaves the interrogation room after the seventeenth questioning, it’s Fyodor who is sent to a work camp. Alfred is probably long gone, forgotten, having refused to capitulate and give up information. It’s the only thought that makes the entire ordeal bearable for Ivan.

Ivan keeps both the photos he and Alfred took and the photographs from the  _ Alfred Frederick Johnston, C.I.A. Agent _ file. 

* * *

Some years later, Ivan comes across the older photographs that he forgot he had. He decides to put them all into the same spot. A week later, he finds a small black album, and he puts the pictures into it in chronological order. The newspaper cut-outs, the professional photographs, the ones snapped with a cheap camera here and there. 

He idly wonders when the next time he will see Alfred is. And he wishes, though he denies it even to himself, that they be granted more time.

* * *

Ivan meets Alfred F. Jones in 2013. He’s an enthusiastic intern, and Ivan had the good luck to be assigned as his mentor on his first weeks. Alfred is meant to follow Ivan everywhere around the complex, and Ivan soon finds there is no containing Alfred’s enthusiasm whatsoever. The boy, fresh out of university with top grades in Astrophysics, is every bit as fascinated by the building itself as he is by the people and work it inhabits. SpaceX had been Ivan’s workplace for only a few years, but he’s managed to make himself a name. After all, he does have the advantage of a few hundred years of mathematics and scientific studies behind him. 

Alfred is a ball of questions, firing one after another to Ivan - who barely finds time to answer before he has another one to think about. The next launch is in a little over a month, no it won’t be manned, research purposes mainly, testing secondary. Main focus of the research is anti-gravity, yes, its effects on plants. New type of engine, in the attempt to shift towards cleaner energies. And the questions keep coming. By the time they finish the tour, it’s late into the afternoon and so Ivan decides that there is no need to start on anything today. He leads Alfred to his office, where Alfred stares incredulously at the whiteboard covered in mathematical symbols.

“What’re you working on at the moment?” Alfred asks.

"It is nothing extremely interesting. I’m merely trying to see how to increase the efficiency of the engine if it were running on other types of fuel, to broaden our possibilities, while still being cost-efficient.” Alfred nods, and Ivan has an inkling it’s unlikely this project will remain his alone for long. He smiles genuinely at the youth who seems to be attempting to remember every detail on the board.

* * *

A few months down the line, and Ivan has accepted Alfred as a constant presence in his life. Alfred is either working on a project he wants Ivan’s opinion on, or he’s interested in what Ivan is working on, or they just happen to be put into the same widescale projects. One day Ivan actually forgets that his office isn’t Alfred’s when he’s looking for the American and puzzled as to why he isn’t in Ivan’s office as he usually tends to be. 

After a year, they’re friends outside of work. It starts off when they find out they don’t live very far from each other; Alfred’s car broke down and he had called Ivan to tell him he would be late to work. Ivan then asked where Alfred lived, and found out it was barely a detour from his apartment to Alfred’s. From that car ride onwards, they regularly carpool and arrive to work together.

One morning, Ivan accidentally meets Matthew  - Alfred’s twin, who was usually at work before Ivan got to Alfred’s - when he mistakenly assumed it was Alfred and tried to get him to get to work. When Matthew introduces himself properly, Ivan remembers the letter that he received over a century ago, but pushes the thought away for the moment. Matthew takes quickly to liking Ivan, and teasing Alfred about the boyfriend he wasn’t told about. Matthew, against Alfred’s wishes, invites Ivan to dinner. 

Outside of work, Alfred and Ivan spend time either in libraries when their company’s database isn’t available for their research into other theories or existing experimental data, or debating different equations over coffee. 

It isn’t long before Matthew tells Ivan to hurry it up a bit and ask Alfred on a date already, and Ivan does. 

* * *

“Damn, this is nice,” Alfred whistles as he enters Ivan’s apartment. Alfred had realised he’d never been to Ivan’s apartment, as many times as they’d been to Alfred’s (much to Matthew’s misery), and since then Alfred had been bugging Ivan over it. And so here they are, Alfred taking in the cosy place. It’s nicely furnished, with some pretty standard things. What draws to Alfred the most is the huge bookshelf with books in multiple languages and in various stages of old age. He gently traces the spines of a few of the books.

“How many languages do you speak exactly?” Alfred asks after he’s come across books in English, French, Russian, Chinese, German, Japanese, Italian… “All of these?”

“Yes, in fact, all of those and a few more. I have no books in Romanian, Swedish or Arabic, but I do manage with them when I speak.”

Alfred looks incredulous. “How much time did you spend on learning them, and how did you manage astronomy with it?”

Ivan has a well-rehearsed story by now, which he always does tweak a bit to fit the necessities of the time era. “My father was half-Russian, half-Chinese, and my mother German - naturally, I learnt all of these at home. I lived for a while in France, where I went to an international class and thus learnt both French and English. Some languages I just picked up along the way, such as Italian and Swedish, others I learned for one reason or another.”

“Wow. Okay. And here I struggle with basic French. I know a bit of Spanish though,” Alfred says with a laugh. 

Alfred plops down on the couch, and Ivan goes to the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?” He asks Alfred.

“Yeah, just whatever you’re gonna have!” Is the response he receives. Ivan settles on wine, and soon is pouring two glasses. No noises are coming out of the living room, and while that isn’t alarming, it certainly is odd when the person in the living room is Alfred. When Ivan finished pouring the two glasses, he goes back to the living room and finds that Alfred is flicking through a book from the shelf with a deep-set frown. Ivan sets the glasses down, and doesn’t doubt for a moment Alfred has picked one of the foreign ones and is trying to decipher it. 

“Are you trying to deciph-”

_ Oh. _

Ivan recognises the small book in Alfred’s hand, which really is not a book at all. He perhaps should have thought twice about putting  _ the album _ there, amongst all his other books, but he also had never counted in the probability of Alfred picking out that one out of the rest of them.

Alfred looks up at him, a mix of worry and fear in his eyes. “Ivan?” He asks with a dry voice. He clears his throat, and looks between the album and Ivan. “What the hell is this?”

Ivan is frozen in place, and this is one of the rare situations he does not have a good, logical explanations for. 

“Is this me?” Alfred continues. Upon receiving no answer from the shocked man, he pressed on. “Ivan, why do these pictures all look like me?” His frustration seems to grow with each passing second. “Is this a joke?!”

Ivan tries to approach Alfred to take the album away from him, but Alfred steps back. “I… I can explain.”

“Well, I sure do hope you can, because otherwise I’m calling the cops on you. What the fuck is this?” His tone is louder, angrier.

“Alfred, how old did I tell you I was?”

“Answer me, dammit, don’t change the subject!”

“Believe me, Alfred,” Ivan tries with his most calming voice, “believe me, I am trying to explain. How old am I?”

Alfred looks disbelieving. “27. That’s what you told me.”

Ivan… isn’t sure where to go from there. “I, ah,... In all truth, I am closer to 500,” Ivan says.

Alfred looks completely disbelieving and unamused. “What the hell are you-”

“492 this year, to be exact,” Ivan continues, but he doubts it makes much of a difference. “I’m immortal.” Alfred doesn’t respond. “And in my past, I have met people who… ah… resemble you, and are also called Alfred, and whom I have on some occasions been friends with. Although,” Ivan chuckles in an attempt to lighten the tension, “you did kill me once.”

Alfred looks at him without blinking, the album still tightly in his hands. “This is some kind of sick practical joke, isn’t it? Where’s the camera?” He looks around him. “What the hell, Ivan, I thought -”

“It’s not a joke, Alfred,” Ivan says quietly in the hopes of Alfred believing him.

“So, what, if I take a knife and plunge it straight into your heart you’ll just stand there and blink at me?” Alfred asks with a flat voice.

“No, not exactly. I would pass out, and if you remove the knife from me immediately then my body will heal the wound and I will wake up again. If you don’t, I will swim in and out of consciousness until I manage to take the knife away myself and hence allow the healing to-”

“You expect me to believe  _ that _ ?!”

“How do you want me to prove it?” Ivan asks, and Alfred falls silent. Neither of them really has any idea. Ivan walks up to Alfred and takes the album from him, going right back to the beginning. 

“Before this first picture, I saw you near the times of the American Revolution as a dockhand. In this one, you - well, your… your reincarnation, to be exact - had just obtained their doctorate from the University of Moscow. We were friends then. You died only a few years later in the American Civil War. After that, on a trip to the US, I saw you in the newspaper - here - as a Senator. Never once met you personally in that lifetime.” 

Ivan takes a breath, trying to determine Alfred’s reaction, but his expression is almost blank.

Ivan continues. “1920, July 17th to be exact, you were one of the Allied troops sent to Russia to fight off the Red Army. You looked too young to be in the Army and I imagine you’d lied about your age. I was part of the Red Army, and you shot me in the head. Luckily for me, that shot went straight through and allowed me to heal. After that, I saw the same you, only much older as a Lieutenant, when our troops met at the Elbe. You… seemed like you’d seen a ghost when you recognised me, but didn’t actually bring up the subject. That photograph is of you and I and our men, see? There is me, not a day older than I look now, yes? And here is you, your reincarnation or whatever you may wish to call it.” 

Ivan sighs. “Once again, you died, this time in the Pacific.” Ivan points to the newspaper article. “The next time, you were a CIA agent sent to the USSR to spy. Ironically, I had a few years earlier joined the KGB - they had somehow found military records of me, but funnily enough they either didn’t know they were from WWII, or simply ignored how young I looked compared to how old the records were. And of course, to add to this, you lived one floor above me. We became… friends. Until, well, you were caught and sent to a work camp. Never heard from you again, and haven’t met any reincarnations since that one.”

“You’re - you’ve got to be-” Alfred looks at Ivan, whose face is serious and sullen. “You’re not joking.”

It’s not a question, but Ivan still responds. “No, I am not. I wouldn’t lie about this, especially if the evidence is rather damning.”

“I’m… But-”

“You’ve never told me your middle name, is that right?” Ivan asks, a final thought coming to him. Alfred thinks, before shaking his head. “Frederick, isn’t it?”

“You could have gotten that from any file on me,-”

“I do not have access to those documents, I was not the one who hired you.”

“But there, that reincarnation, his last name is Johns-”

“Yes, but the first name and middle name do not change. For some reason, do not ask me why.”

“Well, why are you immortal?”

“I was 27, and came across a… witch. They were rather common at the time, but secretive. Of course, I did not know who she was, and ended up on her bad side. She placed a curse on me, as was customary,” he says with a tense smile. “She doomed me to immortal life, and to fall in love - but watch them die a thousand times before the curse would break.”

Alfred looks shocked at that. “And… that person is me?”

“I refused to believe it pained me to hear you’d died, as many times as it happened. As much as I tried to deny it, you are the one.”

“We’re… like soulmates? Is that what you’re saying?” Alfred asks.

“As foolish as that sounds, it’s the best description. I’ve only ever met one other man like me, and the Frenchman’s been head over heels for an Englishman since the Middle Ages. Although I’m not quite sure how much the Englishman can stand him for even a lifetime. But, that’s beside the point - I will stand by you as long as I can,” Ivan explains. “I do understand if…” He takes a heavy breath. “If you never wish to see me again - for more than strictly professional purposes.” 

Alfred is silent. “But if I grow old, you…”

Confusion settles in Ivan’s face. “What?”

Alfred seems to be deep in his mind, thinking something through. “Ivan, I’m in love with you.” Alfred’s eyes are confused but truthful. “I liked you from the moment I met you, and - and - there’s a reason why I basically  _ lived _ in your stupid office for over a year! When I pined after you for months on end to Mattie he got so tired of me he  _ told _ you to ask me out!” Alfred’s eyes widen at the confession and he looks away, too embarrassed to meet Ivan’s eyes.

Ivan can’t help but break a smile, despite knowing that the issue still hasn’t been resolved. When Alfred looks at Ivan again, he in fact tells him so.

“Stop smiling! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, I mean, I love you and I really don’t want to lose you but goddamnit, how do we… What if -  _ when _ , not if, you’re immortal, I’m not - what about when I grow old? What happens then?”

“Alfred,” Ivan cuts him off, “if you can’t tell from this,” he holds up the album, “and how I just told you how long I’ve been in love with you, the answer is  _ longer than you’ve been alive _ . I won’t leave you.”

Alfred looks at his hands, that he’s wringing together out of nervousness. “I guess we can just figure everything out later.”

“What?” Ivan asks, confused as to what Alfred means.

“Well, I mean, I’m the only one of us who’s gonna grow old, so at least I don’t have to worry about… about what to do if you - if you died or stuff. I’ll just…” Alfred sighs. “We can make it up as we go along.” Ivan smiles. “Promise me to find me in my next life, though, and make it work again. Because if I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, in this life, chances are I’ll do it again. In, uh, another life. Just, you know, try to like… reason, with me, if you can, and explain things and all that? Or maybe I can - I can somehow… convince myself that, that it’s true, like some kind of -  of letter -”

Ivan nods, and takes Alfred’s hands into his own. “I will find a way.” His smile speaks volumes, and there’s a slight tint rising in Alfred’s cheeks that Ivan finds adorable. “In the meantime, we can enjoy right here, right now,” he says, and Alfred smiles.

“Yeah,” he answers with a slightly breathy voice, “yeah, that sounds nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hope you enjoyed it! This is a lot more fluff than I've ever written, and gosh does it feel so good it should be criminal. Until next time!


End file.
